


Playing God

by HoneyBeeez



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, a Frankenstein AU with Frankenstein!Yahaba and Monster!Kyoutani, i wrote this in less than two hours please go easy on me, mild gore? fictionalized tho. terribly unrealistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 23:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyBeeez/pseuds/HoneyBeeez
Summary: Yahaba Shigeru, once obsessed with creating life itself, is now obsessed with the life that he created. He taught it about humanity, gave it language and morals, and mended the wounds it sustains in the harsh, judgmental, unjust world.He expects nothing in return. His Creation thinks otherwise.(A Frankenstein AU I have been intrigued about :D)





	Playing God

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rereading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley for an English class this quarter, and i got to thinking about how things would be different. and then kyouhaba was thrown into the mix and i just HAD TO.
> 
> forgive me

It’s been too long since Kyoutani came back, let alone came back in one piece. But, now that Yahaba thinks about it, he doesn’t come back unless _something_ is slightly detached and oozing black-sludge blood.

“You really should not be picking fights everywhere you go,” Yahaba mutters under his breath. He’s bent at the waist, face close to Kyoutani’s wrist that’s half-hanging off the rest of his arm. But the stitches connecting essential nerves, arteries, and skin are weaving through nicely, like delicate brushstrokes on the century’s masterpiece.

So nicely that Kyoutani lets his finger spasm, flicking Yahaba’s nose in irritation.

“You’re not my mom,” Kyoutani grunts, his borrowed vocal chords hoarse and still unused to making sound despite being completely reconstructed over a year ago.

“Actually, I am more than your mom,” Yahaba responds, voice airy and light, a jarring juxtaposition, “I am your Creator.”

“You do not have to shove it in my face all the time,” Kyoutani says. The slight jut of his bottom lip, the tiniest of pouts, looks foreign on his face yet like he was thought up for it to be there. It’s an expression Yahaba knows Kyoutani picked up from him, seen in the split second before Yahaba registered the gleam of life in his golden eyes, imprinted in his mind as the first face of his Creator. Yahaba loves that he’s learning, loves that he still learns from him when there’s millions of other teachers of humanity.

Yahaba hastily, yet precisely, finishes the stitching around his wrist and straightens, turning his attention to his Creation’s face and, consequently, the gash that ran across his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and ends at his left cheek with a flourish. He takes up a damp cloth and blots away the inky blood that stains his features before setting off once again.

“ _People_ do not go fighting with anything and everything they find the least bit detestable,” Yahaba reprimands, looking him in the eye. Kyoutani looks away. “Sometimes you have to grin and bear it like the rest of us.”

“You told me that I should always be apprehending those who deserve it, for the good of humanity, for the good of society.” Kyoutani says this stiffly, reciting something memorized but not internalized, sounding bored. Yahaba clicks his tongue, shifts his artistry in one hand so that he can pinch Kyoutani’s cheeks with the other.

“While there are true deplorable out there, I expect you to do your best to apprehend and protect those that need it most. What I did _not_ mean was for you to halfway maim yourself into oblivion every other week because someone hiked up produce prices _again_.”

“A child was being stolen into a life of slavery. You would have killed to save that child,” Kyoutani argues back, eyebrows furrowed despite the fact that the moment makes him flinch and blood ooze faster from his wound. Yahaba runs a finger gently across the flesh, smoothing it, before returning back to his patchwork.

“You did the right thing, no doubt,” Yahaba muses, unable to refute him, and Kyoutani’s shoulders relax from their ramrod straightness, “but, just because you are not human yourself does _not_ mean your life and safety is any less than the child’s that you saved.”

Yahaba says nothing about the tears that leak from the corners of those golden eyes. Kyoutani would insist that it was from external pain, not from the paradigm shift that accompanies the reassurance of his own worth, anyways. He, instead, blots them away when they edge on mixing in with the gash and the darker-than-midnight blood.

When Kyoutani’s wounds are sealed and bandaged, he is finally allowed off Yahaba’s desk-turned-operating-table. He is unsteady on his feet, as he is for every series of first steps, but he re-learns his center of gravity swiftly enough. At least the tight grip on his Creator’s forearms is explained away by this, but so much the lingering of the touch and the unwillingness to meet Yahaba’s eye.

“You will have to stay here for a week or so,” Yahaba says, delivering the verdict with a grin. “No going out unless accompanied by me and-”

“ _And rest as oft as possible while maintaining a proper amount of sustenance_ ,” Kyoutani finishes, mimicking Yahaba’s air as much as his gruffness can. “I’ve heard your speech before.”

“Then maybe you should stop making me deliver it so often,” Yahaba chides, taking Kyoutani’s hand opposite the newly constructed one. He practically drags him out of his office space, the sheer mass of muscle almost watered clay in his hands, and directs him into Yahaba’s bedroom.

“You expect me to sleep here?” Kyoutani asks, the surprise uninhibited across his face and saturated in his voice. Yahaba’s momentary silence speaks more than words ever could. “Your speech has finally become hypocritical, do you not think so?”

“Since the moment of your conception, I have put your best interest at the forefront of my mind,” Yahaba says, undoing the bedsheets and holding them in such a way to suggest Kyoutani to slip in between them. “I do not endeavor to shift my priorities.”

“Asking for a better Creator,” Kyoutani mutters begrudgingly, stepping forward but not going into bed as prompted but taking a rough hand and cupping the side of Yahaba’s face, “would be like asking for God, Himself.” A kiss, nothing more than a press of lips onto skin, is deposited onto Yahaba’s cheek. With his face and neck blackened by his own signature blush, Kyoutani slips obediently between the proffered warmth and securely hides himself.

“Foul demon,” Yahaba mockingly chastises, tapping Kyoutani’s blonde-and-brown curls twice with a practiced finger, “a religious offering such as that does not atone for any sins!” He tussles for the blankets, but Kyoutani’s grip is firm on the fabric, unrelentless.

“You are no God! Any offering is equated to nothingness!” Kyoutani shouts, voice hard despite the edge of laughter creeping in.

“Lies are also sins that must be atoned as well,” Yahaba says, “but I will let you rest. There will be food when you awaken.” He fixes the bedsheets more securely around his Adam before slipping out of the room.

The rest of his accomplishments mean nothing, _are_ nothing, when compared to Kyoutani. Yes, his Creation is far from perfect, but further experimentation would mean neglecting the perpetually destroyed canvas in front of him. His priorities are set in stone, as solid and alive as the reanimated corpse in the next room, and Yahaba would have it no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!!! please leave comments or stop by my tumblr (hijackedhoneybeeez) and yell at me!  
> there hasn't been a day you haven't survived yet, so keep your head up and keep striving!  
> <3  
> -HB


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